Kiss It All Better
by A Dreaming Songbird
Summary: In one day, everything Jade knew was ripped out from under her feet. She lost her home, her only family, and everything familiar, and then suddenly Dave was dying in her arms - no, was dead, in her arms, and it was all her fault. How had it come to this? A character study of one of the least appreciated characters in this comic. Blood, death, mentions of suicide, etc.


_Suggested music - "Kiss It All Better" by He Is We_

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><p>Your name is Jade Harley, and there is blood on your hands.<p>

You're shaking, right now, and you can't stop crying, either—great, heaving sobs that are wrenching themselves out of your chest and up through your throat and bubbling up with tears that blur your vision even more, now that you discarded your glasses on the ground next to you. What have you done, what have you done, oh god what have you _done?_

Your fumbling fingers wipe at your eyes and smear blood and tears over your cheeks, and then you touch Dave's cheek. He's still warm, but he won't be for much longer, not in the cool air out on your planet, not when he's—he's dead, he's dead he's dead he's dead and once again it is _all your fault_!

A pitiful whine from behind you distracts you from your thoughts, and you raise your head, trembling with fear and pain and grief and shock and rage, to send your most hate-filled glare at the creature standing there. "Get _away_ from me!" you shriek at Bec Noir, unwilling to even look at him for more than a few seconds, and yet unable to tear your eyes away either. "Go away, go away, go _away_!"

Another pitiful whine, even quieter and higher in pitch than the last. The dark ears flatten and the posture droops, and with that final whimper you're reminded of Grandpa's dog, your dog, the only creature that stayed with you throughout your entire life and now he's gone, too, your Bec is _gone_.

No more can you bury your face in white fur and cry and cry and receive confused whimpers and consoling licks and warm lapfuls of big dog in return. No more can you go turn anywhere for that unconditional love. And maybe it's stupid—stupid stupid stupid, just like you—because from what you know of interacting with humans, you _should _know that Bec was just a dog, just a dog and he didn't matter that much, but that dog was all you had and now you don't have _anything _and you can't—!

"Go away," you repeat weakly, biting your lip and hating yourself for how pitiful your voice sounds, how quiet and how weak and pathetic. "Please, _please_, just—just go away!"

Bec Noir lets out a piteous whimper and edges closer instead—Bec's instincts, you'd guess, because when you steal another look at him, you see the same expression Bec always wore when you started crying. Your Bec _always_ knew when you were crying. The second a tear trickled down your cheek and dripped from your chin, there was a green flash and a concerned ball of fluff that wouldn't leave until you were all cried out and feeling better.

This wasn't your Bec, though. This was a monster wearing his face.

You burst into a fresh round of tears, clutching Dave's mangled body to your chest and rocking back and forth and burying your face in his bloody shoulder. "No, no no no, no, please," you sob brokenly, wishing the blood soaking his shirt would go back into his body, that his heart would start beating again, that his flesh would knit back together and you could feel his arms move and hold you again, just like they had when you tackled him in a hug when you first saw him standing there in the snow.

They won't.

"No, no, no, please, _please_," you keep begging anyway, your chest all tight and choked up with the ocean of tears that's slowly coming out of your eyes. Your stomach feels like an empty pit and you don't even care that this dress, this amazing pretty dress the likes of which you'd never owned before, is ruined and covered in Dave's blood. Not even that long ago you'd been so, so happy—had you ever been so happy in your _life_? You don't think so, other than the days when you and Dave and Rose and John had all video chatted and you actually felt loved and not so, so lonely. And now oh god you will never, ever be able to stop crying!

There's the lightest of touches on your shoulder and you whip your head around, scarcely even daring to entertain the wild, crazy notion that maybe it's Dave—

Bec Noir whines at you, nudges your shoulder again.

You _scream_ and slap him as hard as you can, your hand tingling with the force of the blow as you double over and start to sob harder than ever, still screaming until you're sure your voice will be hoarse. He recoils and whimpers, looking hurt, and you can't help but reimagine that look on the face of a white-furred dog you will never see again and now you feel even worse, if that's possible, because Bec, oh, Bec, and suddenly you've let go of Dave and you find yourself about to reach out to this creature because there's Bec in him and that's why he didn't hurt you, why he still hasn't hurt you—

You only remember that he's the reason you shot Dave when you've already buried your tear-streaked face in his fur, dark and more rough, less fluffy than you remember, and when you feel one of those big paw-hands on your back, it feels _wrong_ and not at all like Bec did even though it kind of does too, and you're so conflicted that you burst into tears again. Bec Noir must take that the wrong way, must take it to mean you're turning to him for comfort and that you are okay with crying yourself out in his fur like you did with Bec, because he whines slightly and holds you tighter, and that alone makes you almost want to just let yourself stay here, let yourself sob and sob and sob in his arms because this is as close to Bec as you will ever get again, but, but but you still have Dave's blood on your hands and you can't forgive him for that, no matter what.

So you wrench yourself away from him, letting out a wail of pure distress as you stumble back on your hands and knees and brush Dave's body again, but you can't bring yourself to slap him away or scream at him again or anything because he's Bec Noir but he's still _Bec_, somewhere in that monstrosity, and you—you still love Bec and you _can't _hurt Bec.

You look down at Dave, lying dead in front of you. And you gather him into your arms as gently and tenderly as you can, ignoring Bec Noir's growl. Bec Noir doesn't like Dave. You don't care.

"Dave," you breathe, looking at him for a long moment. He's deathly pale, of course, and still, too, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and trickling across his white cheek down to the ground, and even more of it in a pool around his torso that soaks into your dress, too. "Dave, please don't be dead."

Something stirs in the back of your mind, something you saw on Prospit one time when you were little. You didn't understand it then, but you do now. You know how you make Dave stop being dead. It's just—can you do it?

Yes, you tell yourself. You damn well can do it. You were the one who killed him, so you had better help him live, too!

You take a deep, shaky breath, trying to quell the hiccupping sobs that never ever will stop. All you need is a moment.

You look back down at Dave then, looking for the boy who had flashed those little grins at you earlier, who made you laugh so hard you couldn't breathe with those silly jokes, who had held you up so you could find the frogs you needed, the boy you became friends with over the years, but you can't see him in this ... this death. Dave isn't death. Dave is life and love and laughter and happiness, not this, never this.

Sometimes you used to tease him about these shades on his pale, pale face, ask him what the deal with that was, what color his eyes actually were. He always dodged the question, so you figured it was something he never wanted to talk about and dropped it. Some little thought in your mind suggests that you could always check now but you feel so utterly disgusted with that thought that you actually almost throw up, disgusted in yourself and sick with grief and horror. You would never, ever violate him like that, not even in death—_especially_ not in death, never never never!

Bec Noir makes a sad snuffling sound behind you. It pulls you back to reality, and you bite your lip as you look down at Dave's face once more. He doesn't look like Dave.

When you lean down and press your lips to his, your tears fall on his cheeks, but unlike any fairy tale, this story won't end in him waking up and healing and being okay. It was stiff and uncomfortable and he's too cool already—not cold, it's too soon for that, but too cool to be alive, and that sounds like something he would have said, about being super cool, and now you're crying even harder again—and there's blood on your lips and you can taste it and you feel _sick_.

So you push Dave's body out of your lap back to the ground and crawl a few yards away before you do throw up, crying the whole while and feeling worse than you have ever felt as long as you can remember, guilt and grief and horror and anger and shock all swirling around in a violent maelstrom inside you and twisting up your insides and—

There is blood on your hands.

You stand up, unsteadily and shaky and still trembling as you wipe at your mouth with the one unsoiled bit of your dress. You need to get out of this dress you need to get the blood off of your hands you need to stop tasting blood you need to get out of here!

So you do, casting one last look at Bec Noir where he stands pitifully whimpering and looking down at you with confused sorrow.

"B—bad dog," you whisper, the words cracking your heart even further as you see Bec's ears flatten and Bec's hurt whine fills the air. "Stay!"

And then you take off in what's as close to a run as you can manage, not looking back to see if he stayed or not, just fleeing that place as fast as your legs will carry you before you even remember that you left your glasses back there. It doesn't matter, because your vision is still blurred by tears anyway, and they don't stop coming, but you might need them later. Oh well, it isn't like you can turn back, now is it? You can't! If only you weren't such a disappointment and a failure—so, so stupid!—you might have remembered to grab them. You can't shoot if you can't see!

Then again, you don't know if you ever want to pick up a gun again, not with Bec Noir around. Definitely not with Rose or John around. And, if—if, please let it be, but it's an if and your heart hurts so much—you ever see Dave again, you're throwing every projectile you have as far as it can get from you.

You keep running, not even caring when your breaths get shorter and your head starts pounding from crying so hard while running and while you can hardly breathe. You need to—you just need to get back to your house, or what's left of it, and you just—oh god oh god oh god how did this happen?

It's cold and your dress is covered in mud and blood and you wince every time the wind blows, shivering even more, but you need a bath before you can change clothes. Will you ever be able to scrub this blood off your hands?

Finally, finally, _finally _your house is here. The water won't work now, though, but you need to get this off of you. How do you plan—ah.

With no regard for your own comfort or safety, you strip off the dress and all your clothes under it, throwing them away, and then you take a breath. Then, you run and take a flying leap into the pool of meltwater that's gathered where the lagoon used to be, landing with an explosive splash.

It is _frigid._

When you kick your way back to the surface you let out a gasp, shivering terribly and barely even able to stay afloat for the cold. It's soaking you and surrounding you and it's so, so cold, and you need to get to shallower water so you can stand up and not flounder in the cold cold cold because this is bad for you, you could get hypothermia if you take too long, so you kick your way towards shore until there's ground beneath your feet, and then you start to scrub at your body as hard as you can—it hurts, how hard you're rubbing your legs and arms and scalp, but you don't care you don't care! You need to get this blood off of you!

At some point you realize you can barely feel your legs or feet. That means you need to get out of the water as fast as possible—if you get frostbite or something, you'll be no use to Rose or John or Dave, if he actually isn't dead... well, less use than you would be anyway, and that means pretty much no use at all. So you wade up towards the house again, trembling from the cold, and hurry inside. The fire is still roaring in the fireplace, just without Grandpa in front of it anymore, so you grab a blanket and wrap it around yourself and then curl up on the floor right in front of the fire, sniffling again as you shiver, both from the cold and from your distress. You're lonely and today, you have lost _everything._

Grandpa used to be here. Sometimes you talked to him, pretended he was alive, that you weren't fully alone. You came up with an elaborate falsehood, too, told yourself you knew what he'd say if he could talk, told yourself that maybe you could even talk to him and get answers like that. You always had one-sided conversations.

But that doesn't change fact. The fact is irrevocable and carved in stone, just as permanent as your grandfather's death. And what is that fact?

Jake Harley killed himself.

And it was all your fault.

He never left a note, but that's unsurprising considering he lived with a small child and a dog. But he died, a gunshot wound to the chest—you can't think of a reason he would have done it other than... well, other than you. You vaguely remember him telling you stories, sitting you on his knee and weaving great fantastic tales of the adventures he'd been on, of the people he'd met, of the things he'd done in his life. He had had an _amazing _life. And then... and then you came along. He was saddled with a child he never wanted, and your presence there drove him to—to pull the trigger and that—

You break down again, choking on a sob and curling in on yourself even tighter. The fire is warming your body and you can feel your limbs again, but you're still cold and you don't think even the warmth of the sun could heal your soul, your heart, because that's just... frozen. Gone. You don't know how to fix yourself because you have tried, all your life, to be happy and positive, and to be there for people, because no one was there for Grandpa when he needed it, and you never want to let anyone down ever again, but you _can't_.

You just can't!

No matter what you do, you end up alone. You don't have anything left—no home, no Grandpa, not even Bec. Everything that used to be a constant is gone! You don't even have Prospit to dream on anymore! Your dream self is dead, too, and now she's a stupid sprite that took Bec from you and god you hate her so much, you can't _believe _what a weak and useless being she is, you can't believe how weak and pathetic you are!

Because she is you. And everything that you hate about her? Well, now. That's part of you, too. So that's something you hate about yourself, actually.

A soft keening whine fills your ears, but despite the fact that you're alone it takes you a moment to realize that it was your own voice making the sorrowful sound. Why... why? Why is it that everyone you touch ends up dead?

You loved Grandpa, and it's your fault he ended up with a bullet to the heart.

You loved Dave, and it's your fault he ended up with many, many bullets to the heart.

At this rate, it's probably for the best you don't ever see John or Rose in person. It's probably best if you just—you'll finish everything there is to finish with the frogs, and then you'll stop. You have heard of this Scratch plan, and it'll erase everything in this universe, right? You will just stay here.

It'll be better for everyone that way.

Another tear drips down your face and you pull the blanket even tighter around yourself, shivering. You're drier now, though, so you let it droop and deploy some clothes from your Pictionary modus, getting dressed with no energy in your movements. You want to lie down now, just fall asleep in a snowdrift and never wake up, but you can't. You will not fail John and Rose (and Dave again), you will not!

But you can't help but think that it's horrible that everything you touch just dies. What is it you're doing wrong?

You want to help them. You really do. It's why you never show this insecurity of yours to anyone—not John, not Dave, not even Rose who loves to analyze people. You're careful to hide it. Because you are a nuisance and you are annoying or just—you aren't good enough for anyone to want around. You're the opposite, if Grandpa is any indication of things! And you just really, really don't know why, and it kills you.

"I want to go home," you whimper to the large, empty atrium. The wind whistles lowly outside, sounding as lonely as you feel, because this isn't home, not anymore. "I want to go home."

But you don't have a home to go to, not anymore.

Maybe you can finish this frog breeding. You can do that without messing up too terribly, can't you? You can do that, and then whatever you can to make sure your friends make it safely, whatever you have to do to keep them alive... and then you guess you'll say your goodbyes. It'll be better that way.

You really don't want to do it, but it'll be better that way.

You are so scared, to be honest, but it'll be better that way.

Won't it?

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><p><em>End.<em>

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><p><em>AN: Jade is one of the most unappreciated characters in this fandom, if you ask me, and people have a huge tendency to ignore the fact that she didn't exactly have the happiest childhood, either. That plus what she went through in-game, well... it's really sad. Someone give this poor child a hug, she really needs it. <em>

_Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing._

_This fic was also posted on tumblr._


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